


non, je ne regrette rien (dream a little bigger, darling)

by Anonymous



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: M/M, Piano references no one cares about, also come on please mr Nolan why did you write them like this and then explain nothing, eames was in Cobols backyard for a reason that’s all I’m sayin, fixed the dialogue now it all matches the movie, haha what if I wrote more jk unless ?, sigh, so I did it for you you’re welcome, some blood, the girls are fightingggg, this work is more unstable than three levels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-09
Updated: 2020-09-09
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:27:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26220112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: “Security’s going to run you down hard.”“And I shall lead them on a merry chase.” Arthur smiles, shaky, and Eames remembers in a rush everything from the past, wonders if he’ll be able to look back on this moment and count it part of the flood, wonders if the glint in Arthur’s eyes is the lighting or -Eames shifts his weight so he’s lying flat on the floor, a smile breaking his face in half despite the gravity of it all. “Just be back before the kick.”“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, soft; the words slam into his ribcage and stick there.His eyes slide closed on cue.And Arthur’s fingers are still clutching his wrist.~Eames is good at reading people. He has never been good at reading Arthur.That, he supposes, explains a whole lot.(Eames and Arthur, their second attempt at inception, and the story of the first.)
Relationships: Arthur/Eames (Inception)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 71
Collections: Anonymous





	non, je ne regrette rien (dream a little bigger, darling)

**Author's Note:**

> Edit 04/09/20: okay I woke up at 2:30 am and threw up and reworked this and I feel better about it now so please read it and tell me good things about it please I’m desperate
> 
> Edit 06/09/20: yes it’s two days later and I added almost 1k more words. I’m so sorry. Uh

Eames is good at reading people. 

In fact, he prides himself on it. It’s the mark of a good Forger, to have more than just the mental capacity to project the copy. Idiosyncrasies are everything, mindset, handwriting, upbringing, opinion - all of it is essential in his line of work. 

It takes monumental effort, an acute understanding of the human mind; as a result, Forging is a feat most often associated with half-assed ametures, floundering for the right emotions and peeling faces off of photographs. 

Only the best in the field can make a truly flawless performance. Eames knows he’s one of them. If asked, he says he is the best. 

There’s no room for thinking otherwise.

~

“Rub them together all you want, they’re not gonna breed.”

Eames startles up from his depressing game to an even more depressing sight. 

Cobb, in the flesh, two feet away from him for the first time in weeks - or months - or has it been a year?

“You never know,” Eames says, turning back to the table like he isn’t surprised. Cobb hovers in his peripheral.

_A perpetual clench in his jaw, patchy facial hair, bangs that had once been a close-shorn buzzcut, his right arm seems to hang a little stiffer, these days -_

Cobb sniffs from above him. “Let me buy you a drink.” 

He clearly wants something - he wouldn’t have come all this way just to catch up. Eames runs through his options as he loses the game. 

_Symbolic. You could make a metaphor out of that._

“You’re buying,” he says, pushing up from his seat. Cobb follows him with a surprisingly light chuckle.

There’s something different about this Cobb, something Eames hasn’t seen in him many times before. While Cobb orders them drinks, he takes the time to figure it out. 

“You working, still?” Cobb asks casually. 

Eames shrugs. “It all wound down with Cobol a few months back.” A non-answer. 

Oddly, Cobb doesn’t push it. “Ah.”

“Been thinking about starting back up, though,” Eames says, a lie. “That’s why you’re here, innit?”

 _Cobb’s smirk widens. His eyes are brighter than usual. Different, different, different._

By the time they sit down, Eames thinks, impossibly, he has it narrowed down to hope.

Cobb takes a seat on the balcony and says his own deal with Cobol went south. Eames finds hard to believe for several reasons, Cobb’s caliber as an extractor one of them, but the tail he notices sit down at the bar regrettably proves the truth. 

Cobb says he’s got another job, a high-paying one, which catches Eames’ focus back; Cobb looks him dead in the eye and offers a second shot at inception -

And then Cobb says Arthur’s on the team, and now he’s really paying attention.

_Are you the type to hold a grudge, darling?_

The memory of their last encounter together is a haze of acidic nausea in the back of his throat. Eames takes another drink. 

He knows what he should do. He should run, or at the very least sell Cobb out to the gentleman at the bar and earn enough for another round at the table. He shouldn’t get involved with this again. He should let history repeat itself, he should let go, he shouldn’t drag old wounds back into the light -

_Arthur, Arthur, Arthur-_

Yeah, he knows what he should do. He should down his drink and run.

“You have a Chemist?” he asks instead. 

No going back after that.

~

“You trust this man?” Yusuf mutters. 

Eames watches Cobb fitfully stir in his sleep, conked out by Yusuf’s magic. “I do.”

“How do you know him?”

“We used to work together.” Eames gives him a tight smile. “While back.”

Yusuf nods, contemplative. “He offers a large sum of money, the other one.”

 _Saito. Expensive suits, carefully smoothed down worry lines, hands that are too calloused to be free of a burden, tends to cock his head to the left when he’s being spoken to -_

Eames shrugs. “He’s the head of a big company, second only to Fischer Morrow.”

“I see.” Yusuf goes back to staring at Cobb’s unconscious form. “I’ll do it, if he likes what he sees.”

“I’m sure he will,” Eames says, gives the Chemist a clap on the shoulder. Yusuf raises his head to meet Eames’s eyes.

“You look tired, Mr. Eames,” Yusuf mutters after a beat. “When was the last time you dreamt?”

_White knuckles, one hand in your pocket, the clench of your jaw tells him he’s right, you looked left, broke eye contact, you’ve given yourself away -_

“Thank you for your concern,” Eames says with a tight smile. “I don’t dream often.”

Yusuf raises a hand, a vial of sedative held in his fingers from seemingly nowhere. “Should you ever get the urge.”

“For free?” Eames manages to sound amused. “You flatter me.”

“My friend,” Yusuf laughs, glances back to Cobb’s twitching form - “Nothing is free.”

~

Eames is good at reading people. 

Most people.

~

The workshop is large, spacious, surprisingly well-lit despite outward appearance. High-rise windows, stone floor, filing cabinets and tables arranged to form some semblance of a division of space; all in all, not a bad place to spend the next few weeks.

Yusuf heads to an empty table with one of his many cases under his arm, Cobb lifts another from the ground and follows him, and Saito merely crosses his arms, observing what’s already been set up.

As for Eames, he makes for the middle of the room on autopilot, where Arthur is monitoring a PASIV. A young girl - _perhaps a college student, he’d have to check her hands, but the bags under her eyes are dark enough_ \- is hooked up to it, sleeping soundly.

“Arthur,” he announces by way of greeting.

“Eames.” Arthur turns, back stiff, offers a white-knuckled handshake. “Welcome back.”

“I see you haven’t changed,” Eames tries. 

That’s not true, of course. It’s written all over his face, his hair slicked back, sleeves rolled up to just below his elbows. Arthur hasn’t stayed stationary since Eames last spoke to him. 

Eames hadn’t expected him to. It makes the truth no easier to stomach.

“I see you haven’t either,” Arthur says, something like anger behind his eyes, and wrenches his hand out of Eames’ grip. 

“Harsh,” Eames says. “Come now, darling -”

Arthur’s smile all but bears fangs. “Don’t call me that.”

And with that, he turns back to the PASIV. Cobb steps in-between them with a weary frown. Eames gives what he hopes is a light scoff, taking the sheaf of papers Cobb holds out to him.

Turns out, Arthur is, in fact, the type to hold a grudge.

The further they get into mission prep, the more obvious it becomes that Arthur has decided to push aside his uncomfortable anger and instead opt for cold professional detachment. 

Eames doesn’t know which one he prefers.

At the start, he’s too busy to think much about it, mostly occupied with studying Fischer, both senior and junior; Saito even goes so far as to fly him out to Sydney. Peter Browning is a powerful man, predatory eyes set on the congolomorate’s wealth. During their later briefings, when Eames compares him to a vulture, there’s no exaggeration needed.

The kid, Robert, is everything Eames had hoped. The father is even better. He starts to piece it together, drafts topic sentences in the margins of his notes, weaving the godfather into the narrative with almost premeditated ease. 

Inception is possible. He knows this for a fact. This time, he’s going to do it right.

~

_”Eames, I am impressed.”_

_He knows better than to take that as a compliment._

~

The job is the easiest part. Always has been. 

Once the physical Forging and the research is complete, he finds himself wandering the warehouse more than he finds himself working. 

So in his downtime, when Cobb and Yusuf are busy and there’s no one to comfortably pester, he passes the empty hours by studying his team members. 

Yusuf, while clearly uncomfortable with Cobb’s insistence on him entering the dream, is being a suspiciously good team player. There’s probably something deeper going on there - perhaps a hidden deal to make it worth the risk. Yusuf is a man who pulls the strings from the background, and his method of business is siding with whomever pays the most, a combination that leaves Eames uneasy. 

Saito haunts the workshop, sitting in on their briefings, rarely contributing unless it’s a bureaucratic matter. He’s used to things going his way, but the way he holds his shoulders tells Eames he’s willing to get his hands dirty if somehow, money can’t buy it. 

Ariadne is, in fact, a college student, dragged into this by Cobb and his father. At first, he thinks she doesn’t belong here, if only for the fact that she has far too much potential to waste on a criminal career. 

He changes his mind the first time she shows him the level she has designed for him. 

He’s in the dream for exactly one hour, wandering the labyrinth for what feels like days. When he finally wakes, he demands Yusuf go out and buy him something to eat, and resolves to talk to Ariadne about a shorter way to get through the hospital.

They spend a lot of time coaching her in their individual fields. She’s new to all this, but she asks questions and learns quickly. She’s inquisitive, vocal, unafraid to jump to conclusions, sure to double check them. It’s admirable, Eames thinks. She would make a good Forger. 

And with that, Eames is left with Arthur. 

He moves carefully, more so than before, throws himself into his work with a worrying fervor. He orders salads for lunch and downs three cups of coffee every five hours. His smile is a close-lipped grin, which is an improvement, though it’s never directed at Eames. 

He doesn’t miss how Arthur’s eyes track his every move, how he pores over Eames’ research long after everyone else has double-checked it. Their interactions are stiff, parroting dialogue from a stilted script. 

Eames figures it out before too long. It isn’t hard. Arthur hasn’t forgotten, as much as he’d like Eames to believe it’s all in the past. He’s suspicious of him. 

Fair enough. Eames keeps smiling at him and leaves it alone.

For what Arthur thinks of the others, Eames knows Ariadne impresses him, and he finds Yusuf amusing. He gives Saito a wide berth, though there is an aura of proper respect whenever their paths inevitably cross. He’s almost parental to Cobb, checking in with a mutter that no one can hear when he thinks no one is watching. In return, Cobb gives him another subject to mull over. Arthur never pushes it.

_Something is different. Cobb is different._

_The knowledge that Arthur is, too, settles like a kick to his stomach._

~

“See,” he says one lunch break to Ariadne, “the little things I understand. People change, evolve, and their habits with them, but if you look - he limps on his right leg, now.”

“Maybe he just got injured,” she says around a mouthful of turkey sandwich.

“Maybe. But it would most likely be recent, and there’s no signs of bodily trauma.”

“He said it’s been a while since he last saw you. Anything could’ve happened.”

Eames gives her a squinting stare. “He said that, did he? Came up in casual conversation?”

She shrugs, unabashed. “I’m a curious person.” 

“Say that again,” he scoffs, distractedly bringing a hand up to rub his nose. “I’ve seen you interrogating Cobb. Good luck getting more than a vaguely hypocritical life lesson out of him.”

Ariadne laughs, short, turning back towards the center of the room. Eames watches her arms cross and wonders exactly what she knows that he doesn’t.

“Why does Arthur’s leg bother you?” Ariadne says - his turn to laugh, cross his arms. 

“Don’t turn your questions on me.”. 

Across the room, Arthur’s reprimand to Yusuf carries, something about double-checking the dosage and almost putting him under for a week. He’s never been the type to shout. 

Ariadne, to her credit, doesn’t ask about it again.

~

Somehow, he convinces Arthur to give him fifteen minutes of PASIV time. 

He practically has to write a formal application before he’ll even hear Eames’s request. Deserved, he supposes, but not appreciated. 

“We all have to practice our craft,” he shrugs, watching Arthur strap the tube to his arm. “Besides, you get to stab me with the needle. Won’t you like that?”

“Yes,” Arthur says flatly. “Lie still.”

The needle stings his wrist. Eames closes his eyes -

And nothing happens. He cracks them back open to see Arthur on the opposite chair, rolling his sleeve up. 

“What,” Eames says, “are you doing?”

“You’ll need someone to build the world,” Arthur says. He reaches up to the PASIV.

“You think I can’t do that myself?”

“I don’t trust your judgement.” _I don’t trust you._

“This is a three-hour commitment,” Eames reminds him. 

Arthur won’t look him in the eyes. “Someone has to do it.”

“No one has to do it -”

Arthur presses the plunger before he can finish his sentence, and it’s too late on both ends.

~

Eames blinks. Warm light floods his vision, the smell of alcohol and smoke, a familiar jangling chaos ringing in his ears. He looks down. He’s wearing a blue button-down, black dress pants, an expensive watch on his left wrist.

The casino.

“Arthur!” he shouts, craning his neck to search for Arthur in the saccharine, intoxicated crowd.

“I’m right here, no need to yell.” 

Eames whirls, spots Arthur at the piano to his left, straight-backed on the bench. His hands rest on the keys.

“Why did you bring me here?” Eames hisses. 

Arthur looks at him. “Does it bother you?”

Eames realizes what this is, then, as he reaches in his pocket to find a handful of poker chips. They are all too light, too smooth. “You bastard.”

“Hardly.” Arthur gently depresses a key on the piano. The wavering sound goes unnoticed in the din of the casino. “You wanted to practice. What better setting than here?”

“If you want an apology, there are better ways to get one.” Eames’ tone is antagonistic, biting. If this is what Arthur wants, this is what he’s going to get.

Arthur plays the same note, then a chord above it, doesn’t acknowledge Eames’ attempt at a jab. “You’re here to practice, Eames.”

It’s not worth the fight - even if it was, Eames isn’t sure he’d be able to win. For all his nonchalance, it seems Arthur always has a plan for the upper hand, now.

“Shut them up, why don’t you?” he decides on saying, staring into the crowd. 

“Better get going,” Arthur says. Both hands come up to the keys. “You don’t have all night.”

~

Eames dances from figure to face to persona, dragging up profiles he hasn’t used in months. His subconscious brushes by him unworried, fixed on the machines - Arthur’s stares him down with each new turn. 

He keeps them at bay for a good while, flirting his way through one group, wagering his way through another, but eventually, he finds himself cornered back at the piano. 

Arthur’s eyes are closed, no music on the stand, but his hands move of their own accord, perfectly timed, perfectly played. He’d have it no other way. The music cuts through the casino - Eames can remember hearing it harmonize oddly well with the slot machines.

“Gymnopedie,” he says, surprised to find himself out of breath. “Satie. The third one.”

Arthur glances up, eyes narrowed. “Eames?”

With a blink, he loses the blue dress and the blonde hair. “That’s right.”

Arthur lifts his foot from the pedal and shakes his hands out, the sudden loss of melody unnerving. “Are you finished?”

“I rather think we’re almost out,” Eames murmurs, glancing at the watch. “Next time, I’m doing this alone.”

Arthur frowns. “No, I’m -”

“You’re coming with me? So you can guilt trip me with the scenery?”

Arthur looks taken aback, but not guilty, not surprised. 

Eames scoffs, purses his lips. “Why did you do this, darling?”

Arthur stares harshly at his reflection in the piano. “Don’t call me that.”

“You’re still angry.” The noise of the crowd gets louder, closer.

“I wouldn’t give you the satisfaction,” Arthur says. “Believe me.”

Eames does, is the problem. Arthur thinks he hasn’t atoned enough. Arthur’s taking his justice into his own hands, putting his grievance to rest by shoving Eames’ head underwater. The realization makes his blood spark. 

So Eames is a bit of a selfish person. He’ll admit it. Why does Arthur get to move on while Eames’ nights are sleepless and his days the same poker game over and over and over - 

“Tomorrow, then?” Arthur says, standing - the glint in his eyes is the last thing Eames sees before he’s grabbed from behind and his throat is slit with the shattered end of a champagne flute.

Well. Arthur’s always had a malicious streak.

~

_Arthur’s bleeding._

_It drips down his arm from where he’s torn out the IV, splattering on the ground in a grisly echo of the rain outside. Eames can only gape, speechless for once in his life, mind racing and whirling for something, anything to say to fix this -_

_“I,” Arthur starts, hoarse and small - his eyes are wide, glistening -_

_“Darling.” Eames swallows. “You’re bleeding.”_

_“Don’t touch me,” Arthur whispers, taking a stumbling step backwards. “Don’t call me that.”_

_“I’m sorry,” he says. “I swear. Arthur -”_

_“You,” Arthur says. “You.”_

_“I didn’t have a choice,” Eames begs, and it’s a lie._

_“You did,” Arthur says. Dazedly, he holds out his bleeding arm, face contorting with the realization of pain. “You.”_

_Cobb bursts through the door, then, all whirlwind words and desperate hope - they have to run, they have to get the kick, or else a cold jail cell is the only payment they’ll get for this job -_

_Much, much later, when Arthur’s arm is bandaged, and he’s found his voice again, Eames tries desperately to salvage something._

_“Are you the type to hold a grudge, darling?” he chuckles. It falls hollow on Arthur’s stony expression._

_“I never,” he mutters lowly, “want to see you again.”_

_“What does that mean?” Eames asks like he doesn’t already know, like he hasn’t known this would happen since he first put Arthur under._

_Arthur’s voice shakes. “Figure it out.”_

_And that’s that._

~

The job begins a few days after Maurice Fischer’s death. 

Eames swipes Robert’s passport easily, sits down in his first-class seat easily, hooks himself up to the PASIV easily, falls asleep easily.

_Gunfire. Distant train horn. Fisher’s rapid breathing under his hand, Saito’s pained yelp, Arthur cursing frantically as the car spins out of control._

And then, nothing is easy.

~

“Are you alright?” Arthur shrills, twisting dangerously in the driver’s seat. In any other circumstance, Eames would file this away -

_eyes off the road and fixed on you, voice shaking, concern painted so obviously over a face that prides itself on staying neutral -_

Instead, Eames gasps softly for breath, heart pounding in his ears. He still has one hand on Fischer’s neck, just in case, shoving him down and out of range of any stray bullets. “Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. Fisher’s okay, unless he gets carsick.”

Trained security, huh? The odds of completing the job have lowered drastically, not to mention a hiatus before any pay reaches his pocket. He’ll be pissed if all this was a waste of his time. 

“Saito?” Arthur says, already spiraling back into control, both hands on the wheel. 

Eames chances a look out the shattered rear window. Cobb follows them, front of his car smashed in on the side. Must’ve run into the same problem.

Saito coughs. “Unfortunate,” he murmurs, followed by a yelp as Arthur takes the next turn a little too fast a little too late. 

Eames snaps back around at the quaver in his voice. Saito peels his jacket away from his chest. 

His fingers come away red. 

Eames laughs, short. “So much for tagging along.”

Arthur shakes his head, passing Eames a dirty glare through the rearview mirror. “Saito, keep pressure on it. We’re almost there.”

A minute of silence and shallow breathing later sees Eames manhandling Fischer out of the cab and into Yusef’s waiting hands. Yusuf shoves the sack securely over his head, making sure to handcuff him to the radiator.

Eames sits on his haunches, studies Fischer’s posture. He’s been trained for this, in more ways than one. If it weren’t for the tension in his neck, Eames could believe this is a typical Saturday night for Fischer.

Yelling filters through the floor. Exciting. Eames decides he’d rather be there and makes for the door, tailing Yusuf.

“Calm down.” Arthur.

“Don’t tell me to calm down,” Cobb, incensed, “this was your job, goddammit, this was your responsibility, you were meant to check Fischer’s background thoroughly! We are not prepared for this kind of violence -”

 _Cobb, incensed, but more importantly, afraid._

The scene he is morbid - their ragtag, drenched group gathered around Saito, soon to become a cadaver. Arthur is squared up to Cobb, shoulders pulled tight. 

“We have dealt with sub-security before, we’ll be a little more careful and we’ll be fine -”

“This was not a part of the plan,” Cobb gestures wildly. “He’s dying!”

“Well then, I’ll put him out of his misery.” Eames reaches into his waistband for his gun.

Out of nowhere, Cobb slams him into the cab, pinning his wrists to the metal. “No, don’t do that! Don’t do that -”

“Hey, hey!” He doesn’t fight, too surprised to be angry. “He’s in agony, I’m waking him up.”

“No.” Cobb steps back, panting, looking scarily lost. 

Saito has Cobb on a leash, no matter how amicable a relationship they maintain. If Cobb’s goal is to make Saito suffer, Eames wonders if he realizes how badly it could backfire -

“It won’t wake him up,” Cobb says, voice breaking. 

And, well.

Things get heavy very quickly, after that.

~

“It was your fault, you know,” he says to Arthur. He’s got one eye on his reflection in the vanity, the other on Arthur’s. “Sure, Cobb lied, but that wouldn’t have mattered if you’d done your job.”

Arthur’s back is turned. He hunches over Saito, last minute work on his wound that won’t make a difference. Eames wonders if he’s even heard him.

“You’re the point man. The best point man.”

Outside, the rain gets louder. Arthur grabs a ski mask from the table, shoves it over his head.

“It’s not like you.” Eames adjusts his tie, crooks it to the side, adds a bloodstain to his collar for dramatic effect. “Not like you, to miss something as big as this.”

“I already got a lecture.” An answer, finally. 

“Not from me.”

“I’m very happy to do without.” 

“You always were.”

Saito coughs again. Weaker. He’s fading fast. 

“Cobb’s gonna hold you responsible. He doesn’t strike me as the type to let go of things easily.”

Another silence. It rips a hole in his lungs. To compensate, he practices Browning’s pitying stare in the left side of the mirror.

Speak of the devil - Cobb briefly pokes his head in and hisses for Arthur to hurry up.

“You neither, apparently,” Eames whispers. It carries in the empty space.

“You’d be surprised,” comes Arthur’s just as soft reply, brushing by on his way out the door.

Eames’ fingers freeze halfway through combing out his hair. “What does that mean?”

Arthur laughs as he leaves, a sardonic contrast in the dismal atmosphere. “Figure it out.”

~

Eames is good at reading people. He has never been good at reading Arthur.

And that, he supposes, explains a whole lot.

~

He spends the hour with Fischer. It’s quite possibly the most depressing hour of his life, which is saying something. 

The kid suspects nothing, treating Eames as though he’s known him his whole life. The best in the business, Eames thinks to himself, mirroring Browning’s half-chuckle with a crackling cough, just for show. Fischer asks a few questions about what they’ve done to Browning, clearly concerned - Eames brushes them off in favor of digging further into his family life, disgusted by what he finds.

_”I was eleven, Uncle Peter.”_

_When it’s all said and done, perhaps this inception will turn out alright. Eames watches pain flash through Robert’s eyes and sets his focus on figuring out where to go from here._

Arthur appears long before he’s ready. Eames is reminded just how crunched down their time frame is, now. 

No matter - he flinches adequately as Arthur hauls him to his feet, Cobb appearing to shove the sack on Fischer’s head. Arthur smirks and does the same to Eames, a little more aggressively than necessary.

“We’re worth more to you alive,” Fischer gasps out, blindly stumbling over his feet. He lands heavily in the van; Eames is shoved similarly into the seat behind him. “You hear me?”

He sounds a little more desperate. The prospect of driving into a river doesn’t exactly appeal to Eames, either. 

Fischer doesn’t say anything more after that, presumably unconscious. Someone’s hand pulls him back up and out. He grabs for the bag on his head, shaking their arm away. 

“What’d you get?” Cobb and Arthur come into view. 

Eames exhales loudly, running a hand through his hair. “That boy’s relationship with his father is even worse than we imagined.”

Arthur’s frown deepens. “This helps us how?” he grumbles, ducking behind the van.

“The stronger the issues, the more powerful the catharsis,” Cobb says, backpedaling to grab Saito’s other side from a struggling Yusuf. 

Arthur grabs his gun, walking forward until he’s face to face with Eames. “How are we gonna reconcile them if they’re so estranged?”

They lock eyes. An accident. All the fight is knocked out of Eames, and he hates how easily Arthur does that to him, and he hates how much there is whirling behind Arthur’s eyes, and he hates that he can’t figure out what it is -

“Well, I’m working on that, aren't I?” he forces, quieter than he’d like, but there.

It snaps Arthur back into motion. “Work faster,” he mutters, hurrying away from the van. “The projections are closing in quick. We gotta break outta here before we’re totally boxed in.”

Eames stands, frozen. Cobb and Yusuf settle Saito in the van, Ariadne moves past him with a pursed-lipped look - ( _pity_ ) - and Arthur heads for the warehouse door, sliding back the window. 

Eames watches him exchange a few rounds with Fischer’s security, watches several bullets too many narrowly avoid lodging themselves in his head. Arthur peels back the door, frustrated, fires off a few more rounds, still to no avail.

No better time to regain a little bit of his pride. Eames walks to Arthur’s side, acknowledges his angry look with a sad excuse for a smile, and imagines a grenade launcher in his palms until the cold metal meets his skin. 

“We mustn’t be afraid to dream a little bigger, darling,” he says, simply. It’s nothing, but Arthur’s stance shifts just enough to make his ribs press in on his lungs. 

He raises the launcher to his shoulder, fires, and turns away before he can see any more of Arthur’s reaction. 

_The stronger the issues, the more powerful the catharsis._

_For someone like Fischer, maybe. Eames can’t bring himself to decide if Arthur works the same._

~

_”Mal,” Cobb says quietly, her name sitting dirty on his tongue. “The Cobol job. I got careless, she found Arthur, shot him in the leg.”_

_Eames takes this in. The setting sun illuminates the warehouse walls, bright orange and pink and purple. “So the limp is all psychological, I see.”_

_Cobb shrugs. “Sure.”_

_“It’ll go away soon,” Eames mutters. “Probably. He’ll get another injury and forget all about it.”_

_Cobb exhales a snort. “That’s Arthur for you.”_

_Eames hums. The sunset is really something - how long has it been since he stopped to look at it?_

_“I’m sorry for your loss, by the way,” he says after a moment’s silence. “I didn’t know.”_

_Cobb nods, swallows. “Thank you.”_

_No wonder, he thinks as Cobb pushes off from the rail and heads back inside. He hadn’t known Mal, but he knew Cobb’s love for her, and he wonders how he hadn’t recognized the pain in his eyes._

_No wonder he’s different, Eames thinks, and watches the sun go down alone._

~

Arthur’s hands fumble at his wrist, sliding the needle into his vein. Eames stares at him and doesn’t even feel it. 

Things are heavy. Things are getting worse, he knows it, he does - no matter how well they think they’re doing, he knows, he knows, he knows. They’re in danger, their lives in the balance. This was not in the plan. This was not part of the deal. 

Arthur peels his sleeve down further, looks up. They lock eyes. An accident. 

Eames wants to tell Arthur everything, in that moment. 

_I could die,_ he wants to say. _You could die. This could be the last time we speak to each other._

 _Maybe, if we both lose our minds, we could start over,_ he wants to say. _Would that be so bad?_

 _I’m sorry,_ he wants to say, and this one surprises him. _It was my fault. I regret everything._

“Security’s going to run you down hard.” It’s nothing. He curses the pressure in his chest.

“And I shall lead them on a merry chase.” Arthur smiles, shaky, and Eames remembers in a rush everything from the past, wonders if he’ll be able to look back on this moment and count it part of the flood, wonders if the glint in Arthur’s eyes is the lighting or -

Eames shifts his weight so he’s lying flat on the floor, a smile breaking his face in half despite the gravity of it all. “Just be back before the kick.”

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” Arthur says, soft; the words slam into his ribcage and stick there. 

His eyes slide closed on cue. 

And Arthur’s fingers are still clutching his wrist.

~

They don’t talk when they wake up. This is fine. Eames fills out his immigration form and stares out the window and convinces himself Arthur isn’t staring at him out of the corner of his eye. 

_Eames is good at reading people. Idiosyncrasies are everything, mindset, handwriting, upbringing, opinion. He didn’t get this far, the best in the business, without being able to read anyone, anytime. So Arthur?_

_Eames supposes he’s been too afraid of what he’ll see to look._

~

“It was easy,” he confesses to Arthur, later, sitting on an airport bench. They’re waiting for their respective cars, courtesy of Saito. Arthur’s headed to the city, Eames to a local hotel where he’ll wait until his return flight to Mombasa tomorrow.

Arthur continues his recent habit of not looking him in the eyes. “What was?”

“Leaving Saito, in the dream. The hospital. Gave him a grenade.”

Arthur frowns. “Sounds simple enough.”

“Because I thought,” Eames continues, “he might have to blow himself up. That’s the thing. I knew he’d die there, alone, violently. And it was easy.”

Silence.

“Do you think I’m horrible?” Eames wonders out loud, reaching out with a gentle kick to Arthur’s shin, knowing the answer.

Saved by the honk of a taxi horn. “I’ve gotta go,” Arthur says, struggling to his feet.

Eames tries a smile. It doesn’t work. “Already?”

They lock eyes. No accident, this time. Eames tries to say everything with one look - Arthur takes it in, frozen in time for a mere moment. In return, Eames looks at him, for real, for the first time since it happened, and is surprised to see Arthur hesitate.

“Goodbye,” Arthur says, voice lilting upwards. _Uncertain._

Before Eames can register it or get another word out, he’s disappeared into the crowd.

~

Eames is good at reading people. He’s never been good at reading Arthur. 

This, he thinks, is why he can’t let him go again.

~

_Here is how it goes._

_Cobb offers him a job at the same time Cobol does. Eames knows this is no coincidence. It is made especially clear it is not when the Cobol representative tells him exactly what the job is._

_Cobb tells him it’s a deep one, requiring two layers. Cobol tells him he will need three. Cobb tells him his job will be laid-back, practically a vacation. Cobol tells him their job will be neither._

_And, well. You just don’t say no to Cobol._

_He accepts both jobs with a plastic smile and shaking hands._

_This is his first mistake._

_His second is choosing Arthur._

Inception is possible. Eames knows this for a fact. 

All he has to do is prove it, give Cobol a few details about Cobb, and he walks away with enough money to settle him for life. He’s gotten this far, miraculously. Arthur’s on level three, dreaming up the world Eames sees around him, and so far unaware that any deception has taken place. If everything goes well, Eames will be out and able to convince him he’d simply dozed off, and the idea will be there, and he’ll be good to go.

Arthur’s seated at the piano, looking for the world like everything is normal, but his subconscious is already starting to turn and stare. The ceiling shakes, Eames’ cue to look at his watch - he’s running out of time. Arthur begins to play, something from the Romantic era, something familiar. 

A blink, and Dominic Cobb stares back at him from his reflection in the glass. He stands. 

It’s possible. Inception is possible. He just has to get Arthur to stay with him after the job. He just has to prove to Cobol that he - that -

That he what? That he manipulated Arthur? That he sold out his teammates, his friends?

_No one’s getting hurt. It’s a simple job. No one’s getting hurt. You just don’t say no to Cobol._

“Arthur!” Eames calls, half-jogging over to the piano. 

Arthur looks up, still playing. “Cobb.”

“That’s lovely,” he says. “What is it?”

Arthur shrugs, hesitating on the measure. “I’m not sure.”

_That’s not good. Divert the conversation, quick -_

“I didn’t take you for a gambling man,” he says, gesturing to the setting. The bright lights of the casino are a strange choice. Eames struggles to understand why. 

“I’m not.” Arthur pauses, looks around conspiratorially. “Between us, I’ve been meaning to ask Eames to go here with me. After the job.”

Oh. “Really?”

Arthur nods, squinting. “You know him. I figured he’d have fun.”

“Very selfless of you,” he says. He’s not sure what to think. 

On one hand, the idea has clearly been placed - Arthur’s interested in staying with him after the job is over, without Eames having said a word as himself. On the other, this is wrong, Eames was never supposed to hear this, to see this side of Arthur - at least, not yet. Not like this.

It must show on his face. Eames realizes the crowd has gone silent behind him. No, no -

“Yeah, well,” Arthur says, hand slipping into his pocket. “We all have to make sacrifices.”

Inception is possible. 

And Eames knows in that moment he hasn’t done it.

Arthur yanks the dice out of his pocket, weighing it in his palm. He snaps his eyes back up to Eames. 

He’s always seemed to see straight through him. Eames shakes in time with the world around him.

“You’re not Cobb,” Arthur says with a breathy, frightened laugh, and Eames sees it in his face as he remembers. “I’m dreaming.”

The ceiling collapses.

_Eames’ eyes snap open._

_Arthur’s sat bolt upright in his chair, scrabbling at his arm - with a horrible rip, he yanks the needle from his arm and staggers to his feet._

_Blood drips down his fingers._

_No amount of money is worth the look in his eyes._

~

The sun is setting. 

Arthur sits on top of a hill, knees pulled to his chest, staring down at the mossy, flower-speckled grass. 

“Lovely place.” Arthur startles, looks up at him. Eames watches his face fall. “You come here often?”

“What are you doing here?”

“You’re easy to follow.”

“You think you’re funny,” Arthur snaps, “but I meant what I said.”

“You never want to see me again,” Eames repeats, sighing as he sits down beside Arthur. “That didn’t work out, did it?”

“I did it for Cobb,” Arthur says. “I didn’t do it for you.” 

“I was just an added bonus, I see.”

“Leave,” Arthur says. His hand flies out to point Eames in the direction of the road. 

He would. He should. But he shakes his head, hoping this is the right thing to do. “I want to talk.”

Arthur barks a laugh. “That’d be a first.”

“I came to apologize,” Eames says. Arthur’s eyes narrow.

_Eyes darting from his hands to his nose to the rise and fall of his chest, rummaging for something in his pocket, the mixed relief and disappointment of knowing that this is real-_

“I don’t,” Arthur stutters, “need you to, I know, it didn’t work -”

“Let me?” Eames says, holding up a hand. Arthur looks like he wants to argue, but doesnt, so Eames swallows his pride and regret and -

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I regret it. I never should have done it, and I’m sorry.”

Funny. He’d thought it would be harder to say. 

Arthur looks speechless, for once, meeting Eames’ gaze. 

“Thank you,” comes Arthur’s voice, after what feels like minutes of waiting. “I - thank you.”

“Yeah,” Eames shrugs, smiles quickly. “Long overdue.”

Arthur swallows. “In the dream, I - I thought about it. I thought about it a lot.”

“The threat of death will do that to you.”

“I think I forgive you,” Arthur says. Simple. Eames can barely believe he’s said it. 

“You think,” he says, hiding his disbelief behind a swipe of his nose.

“Don’t push it,” Arthur grumbles, looking away - he can’t hide the ghost of a smile that threatens to break free. 

“Right,” Eames says, and shuts up. 

Together, they watch the sun paint the sky orange, and stay there until the stars are in the sky. 

~

_When he can finally sleep through the night unaided, he dreams of Arthur._

_“Gymnopedie,” Eames says, leaning on the lid of the piano. “Satie. Which one?”_

_Arthur grins up at him. “Third. Want to join in?”_

_“Oh, no.” Eames lifts a hand, tastefully picks at a nail. “I don’t play.”_

_“Neither do I.” Arthur scoots over, pats the bench. Eames smiles and takes a seat._

_Their hands rest on the keys, fingers brushing against each other, hip to hip, shoulder to shoulder. Arthur plays the bass note. Eames hesitates to play the chord._

_“Come on,” Arthur says softly. “Dream a little bigger, darling.”_


End file.
